


Of Lights and Brilliant Shapes

by limitedpractice



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cybertronian, F/M, Organ Fondling, Organs, and the smooth warm metal of your alien robot, just feelings, mechanical insides, nothing explicit in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limitedpractice/pseuds/limitedpractice
Summary: a.k.a Love and anxiety when it comes to touching the inner workings of your robotIf a cybertonian cracks their chest plates open and slides them back for you - if they expose their alien mechanical inner workings to you - then you need to have a steady hand in order to help them. You need to have a spine in order to put your fingers between slowly turning cogs and quickly pumping pistons. You need to have an open heart to tell them how you're feeling about this. And you need to have the resolve to not become entranced and never move from the fascinating sight you've been granted exclusive access to.
Relationships: Hubcap/Reader, Hubcap/you
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	Of Lights and Brilliant Shapes

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking about what the inside of a cybertronian's chest would look like and how the components would feel and their effect on you are good thoughts to have. And after seeing some great organ fondling art and fics and talking about it, I felt like writing something.   
> Mechanical accuracy doesn't take centre stage here - I was just in a mood to write something emotional. And to have a stab at describing alien mechanical innards and to get to grips with a basic layout.
> 
> I think that every bot would have some identical components, adjusted for their individual size and power, but everyone is going to be different. Everyone will feel different. Everyone will react differently to what you do to them.  
> There's a long list of bots I want to write about, and what it would be like if a human or another bot felt inside them. But I'm starting with Hubcap and his human, because I love that nerd so much.

You close your eyes and rest your forehead on his closed door. 

You can do this. It will be fine. It will be good. Just don’t look too nervous or confused or excited or alarmed when you see it. Just suppress all the things you’re feeling and choose some new ones and it will be fine. 

You open your eyes and enter the passcode into the keypad. The ring around it turns green, and the door to his room slides open. 

You see him immediately. He's lying down. He’s preparing himself for you. 

Your excitement levels ignore you and shoot up. Nerves follow behind in a very close second place.

You swallow and step over the threshold. 

The sound of the door closing behind you is lost to the thick pulsing of blood in your ears.

“Uh, thank you for coming,” he tells you in stilted formality.

“Always,” you say quickly far too quickly. “Any time. I’ve always wanted to see it- them - but have never asked you - obviously - and it’s going to be good. I mean I want you to be good after. To feel good. You’re already good. You--” You cut yourself off. It’s time to calm down and try this again.

He shifts on his back, and you tell yourself he didn’t make that movement because he’s irritated with you.

“I’ll always help you,” you tell him simply. Your pick your words carefully this time, and don’t need to worry if they’re coming across as genuine because you can both hear that they are. You can both feel that they are. “I want to. I really do. And- and thank you for entrusting me with this. With you. For you. For everything. Yes.”

That wasn’t terrible but it certainly wasn’t great. But the look on his face says that you’re making things better simply by being here. You take another step into the room. And you twist your fingers together as you do so, because you’re not that special and don’t have that sort of power and you don’t know why he thinks you do.

With a start you realise that your finger twisting could be interpreted as negative nerves, so you clench your hands into fists to still them. And then you realise this could be interpreted as anger, so you jam them in your pockets. And then realise that this could be interpreted as casual indifference to what he’s entrusting you with, so you yank them out and press them hard against your thighs. You’re sweating so much that your shirt is sticking to your back and underneath your arms and you hate it, you hate feeling like this. Not from the excess sweating which is unpleasant but nothing unusual, but from what’s making you sweat in the first place.

It’s natural to be nervous in this situation, but it’s not right to be silent and let your imagination explode. It’s not healthy to guess and second guess what he’s thinking and to then answer these imaginary questions yourself. You need to ask him directly. You need to get a hold of yourself and start communicating properly. If he can open up then so can you.

You walk over to him. And your heart can’t help but beat harder at what you’re about to see.

“Are you sure?” he asks you quietly.

You nod immediately. “Always. Please. If you- if you still want me to?”

He answers you by opening up his chest.

You swallow dryly. You feel like you should be looking away as such an intimate thing unfolds before you. But you can’t. You’re hit with the same feeling you get when you slow down to look at a car crash on the side of the road - an uneven blend of curiosity, guilt, and excited anticipation.

His largest segment of chest plating curves away slowly. It feeds into a slot below his neck like a car’s sunroof peeling down. The three smaller glass plates that form the windows of his alt mode shiver immediately afterwards. They’re receiving commands to move but not to transform, and they’re resisting. They’re not resisting hard or for very long, but when they do move back into his frame they do so stutteringly, and judderingly, and gratingly. 

“Sorry,” he says, over the sounds of shatter proof glass scraping against metal. “They, uh, can’t get any quieter than this. We’ve tried everything, but nothing works. They’ll always be like this. But at least they don’t get stuck half way through any more. That was never fun.”

HIs remaining chest plates finish retracting into his frame with a series of soft snicks.

Your heart pumps hard as you look down into him. You’ve never seen his inner workings before, and have never worked up the nerve to ask to. You know what he went through during his training with Roadbuster, and how damaged he was for a long time afterwards. He hasn’t described his ordeal to you in detail, but you’ve researched mode drilling and its long term effects on survivors. Even after a recovery is deemed complete and the victim can once again transform at will, permanent effects include pain, stiffness, and a long catalogue of mental horrors that made your chest ache to read through.

Your first impression of what his insides look like is an overwhelming clash of cables and cogs and pistons and pipes and smooth rectangular coverings in different shapes and sizes that reflect different amounts of light and it’s organised chaos it’s too much to take in from look alone.

You look up at him and open your mouth to say something, but he interrupts you before you can.

“A bit overwhelming, isn’t it? All the, uh, components? All the different parts? Not knowing what they’re for or how they connect or which one is the most important? I felt the same way when I saw what a human’s insides looked like for the first time. Ratchet made us all watch a documentary while he scowled and held up real life examples. I think I nearly passed out.”

You can’t help but smile at that.

“Actually I didn’t nearly pass out,” he admits, talking quicker because of his own nerves and because you’re visibly becoming more relaxed simply by hearing him talk. “I just told Pipes that I almost did, because he actually did.” 

“He passed out from watching a video?”

“I think it was from watching Ratchet squeeze a heart to demonstrate how it pushes blood around your body. There was still blood in it, and he was at the front next to him. He doesn’t do well with liquids splashing over him any more.” 

You nod solemnly.

“But he didn’t have to shriek and flail about so much. That was embarrassing for everyone to watch”

You try not to smile too much at that.

“We pretend it didn’t happen,” he says.

“What happens at movie night stays at movie night.”

He laughs at that. You both know exactly what can happen at movie night.

You look down at his open chest again. You feel more relaxed now. But still nervous. Still excited. Still guilty for feeling excited. Because he looks fascinating. His components are familiar but unmistakably alien. Your eyes can’t stay still. They rove unblinking over him, absorbing the sights as if they’ve been dehydrated until this very moment. They soak up and catalogue what they’re seeing as if this will be the one and only time they’ll be granted such a privilege.

“OK?” he asks you.

You nod. You don’t yet know what to say. This is a lot to take in. You want to give this moment your full attention and the honour with which it deserves. But you’re also aware that you don’t want to ogle shamelessly at him and start drooling. You want to watch him for the correct amount of time with an acceptable level of intensity. But it’s difficult not to stare at him with a slightly open mouth and wide unblinking eyes, because he is absolutely fascinating to watch. Because that’s what you’re doing - you’re watching him, not looking at him. And that’s because parts of him are still moving.

You swallow dryly. Parts of him are still moving. You know that he’s stopped some components from moving altogether because he told you earlier that he would, but those are the exceptions. The majority of his parts are still moving inside him.

Links of segmented chain plating rattle softly into a small opening and back out again like a moving walkway; tiny pistons pump up and down around a larger one; a flat grey square vibrates; connectors click on and connectors click off; wires stretch and slacken; biolights pulse softly and brightly in seventeen shades of yellow, red and blue; a mass of thick and thin cables snake around everything and thrum gently. He is in perpetual mechanical motion. And he looks magnificent. 

You swallow again. His moving components have been deliberately slowed down so that you can get a better look at them. And so that when you put your hands around them and your fingers in between them, the risk of you being harmed by them is reduced. 

You wipe your sweaty palms on your legs. He’s got it all wrong.

“Are you OK?” he asks you again. 

You nod again. You’re not worried about hurting yourself. You don’t care if your skin gets nicked on a sharp plate of metal or if your finger gets trapped between the teeth of two slowly kissing cogs.

You cough and clear your throat. “Yeah. Yeah I’m fine. But you-...”

What you’re worried about is damaging him. What if blood from your cut finger sinks into his inner metal and corrodes it? What if your clumsy finger jams up his cogs and they can’t restart? What if you squeeze too tightly or press too hard and something snaps and it can’t ever be repaired? What if you hurt him as well as damage him? How could you live with yourself then?

A fresh layer of sweat blisters up from beneath your skin and sits slick and cool on top of it. 

You have no experience whatsoever with how machines work. You just know that they do. It’s never been an interest of yours to find out how and why they operate. Unlike with other interests, you’ve never felt that particular thread of curiosity tug at you. You haven’t ever researched machines in theory, let alone learned how to build or repair one. 

“I’m fine,” he tells you. “I will be fine. I trust you with this.”

Your face must be ninety percent terror and only ten percent pride, because he reaches for your hand and holds it gently. He doesn’t make an attempt to move it. He just holds it. 

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I’ll be fine if I do it the way I’ve been doing it for years. I’m not upset at you. I will never be upset with you.”

You take a slow and steadying breath before answering him. The initial shock of seeing so much moving machinery up close has passed, and your head is organising the experiences into first drafts that are already pleading to be amended and added to. The rotations and contractions of his inner workings are hypnotic. And it takes an effort to tear your eyes away from them and look up at him.

“I want to do this,” you tell him seriously, because it really is time to start communicating properly with him. “I really do. To help you of course, that’s the main reason. But also because it’s just…fascinating. This is fascinating. You’re fascinating. And I’m sorry for the number of times I’m going to say that word, because I’m going to say it a lot.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “But?” he prompts.

“...but I don’t know what I’m doing here. This is beyond me. And if I was ever responsible for damaging you or hurting you, I’d...” 

The list of punishments you’d inflict on yourself is too long to list.

“I’ll tell you exactly what to do,” he tells you. “It will be simple. And you won’t hurt me. You won’t break me. I’ve been through one of the worst things there is to go through, and I’m still here.”

You nod slowly in agreement.

“If you’re not doing it right or if something feels wrong, I’ll tell you to stop. I promise.”

You nod again, firmer this time. “OK,” you say. 

He squeezes your hand once more and then pulls it towards his chest. He moves your hand down into him slowly, so that you have plenty of time to prepare yourself. Or to pull away if you want to stop. 

Your fingertips touch down on smooth metal. And you can’t help but jerk a little, because you realise you’re touching an alien’s inner organ. You wonder if human surgeons feel the same way when they first put their hands into someone’s chest cavity and rest their fingers on their heart. You wonder if any other human has ever touched a cybertronian like you’re doing. 

He presses your fingertips into the metal harder. You look up at him, and know there’s worry in your eyes and on your face and in the way you’re holding every single one of your muscles ramrod straight. 

“Cybertronians are built to last for a long time,” he tells you. “So you can press down harder and it won’t damage me. If you want to of course.”

You press down harder. And you slowly start spreading your fingers. And after a moment’s hesitation, he lets go of your hand. And you know that his hesitation is not because you now have free reign to move your hand wherever you want to, but because you might not want to. 

You splay your fingers as wide as they’ll go. The metal plate is smooth, and warm, and layered with small ridges. “What’s, uh, this metal?” you ask. “This part?” 

“The top of my secondary energon converter. It uses energon only when transforming. Part of it is, uh, buried. It goes into my back. And the primary one - the first one - that one sits in my- ha you already know that primary means first, I didn’t mean to repeat that as if you didn’t - is in my head. It’s smaller. And harder to get to. So. I’m sorry you can’t see it today. Maybe another day? If the medics will help? If you want to? Sorry.”

You bring your fingers back together, and concentrate on the thrum of power that’s coming from underneath your palm. You rub the metal with your thumb, and hook it underneath the bottom. “This is more than I ever thought I’d get to see. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

“That’s, ha, debatable.”

“No it isn’t.”

You bring your other hand up and place it on his energon converter as well. It warms up quickly. 

“It, uh, won’t damage me if you put your fingers anywhere else inside me. It’s perfectly safe. For me. And mostly safe for you. You won’t catch anything,” he adds quickly. “Or suffer an allergic reaction from touching anything. The medics cross checked your species’ physiology and your own personal records and said that it’s safe for our molecules to interact. Our chemistry is compatible. You just have to be careful around the moving wheels and cogs. And that third piston on the left - your left, not mine - if you touch around there. It’s slightly around the base. But it’s fine. It works. I’m fine.”

You’re overcome by a strong desire to kiss the part of his energon converter not covered by your hands. And you almost do. Your head dips down an inch before you stop yourself. You press your fingertips into it harder instead. 

“What if-” you start to say. “What if my fingers- no, sorry, you just said they won’t cause damage to you. But I did wash them thoroughly before I came in here. I washed them for two whole minutes. And then I...touched the keypad outside. And the door. And my face. And my trousers. And then you.”

“It’s OK,” he reassures you before you can start to panic that you’re infecting him with a swarm of germs your fingers have picked up. “We have an inbuilt system to neutralise and destroy outside contaminants when we’re exposed like this. It’s sort of similar to your immune system. Except that it contains microscopic chain reactions and layers of invisible primer. If your defence system’s sequence stops working and needs to be rebooted, you have to get the primer painted on manually. It makes you smell for days. It sometimes smells for weeks if the medics paint it on too thickly.”

“And,” he continues, “Your skin - I mean the oils that are on your skin - are what I want. What I need. What I would like. Are you OK? Are you sure you’re OK with this?”

“Are you OK?” you shoot back, concerned. You’re feeling so much more relaxed than you thought you would be. But his anxiety seems to have grown and deepened. “Do you still want me to do this?”

“Yes. Yes. But- but if you’re not comfortable with it we can stop. With anything. With any of this…”

“I am comfortable. But what are you not comfortable with?”

Warm air vents out of a small grill and rolls along your arm. 

“Uh, nothing. I mean everything! No, wait, that’s not right-nothing. I’m comfortable with everything. I-...OK I just...I just worry that you don’t like looking at me like this. All of this. I’ve never had a desirable alt mode, and now my components are used and damaged and second hand and I look even worse. And I understand that could be off putting and you don’t really want to explore and touch me even though I really want you to and that’s very selfish of me I know, I know, and I’m sorry I--”

You cut him off by kissing the part of his energon converter not covered by your hands. The air venting out of him blows harder. You press your lips into him softly, and do not rush. You look back up at him.

“I want to explore every inch of you,” you tell him before your nerve fails you. “I really do. I just don't want to come across as eager and selfish and uncaring. You have no idea how fascinating you are, absolutely no idea.”

“...I’m nothing special.”

“Yes you are.” You say this with such a simple finality that the air venting out of him changes from warm to hot. You place two fingers on an energon line sitting on top of the vent, like you’re taking its pulse. And you stroke it. He lets out a soft moan that’s definitely not because he’s in pain. And when he realises what he’s doing he shuts his vocaliser off immediately. 

You make a mental note of what you did to cause that reaction. But that sort of exploring is for another time. The reason you’re here now is to help him with an ongoing medical condition caused by his mode drilling torture. 

“Can I help you? Can I see it?”

“Any time you want.”

“I’ll remember you said that,” you tease.

“Good,” he says seriously.

You meet each other’s eyes. And you hear its protective casing slide away. Its colour appears at the bottom of your vision, and you feel your pulse pick up speed.

“Take your time,” he tells you. “It won’t hurt me when - if - you touch it. It won’t damage it. And it won’t hurt you. But its rotation can’t be slowed any further without risking a permanent shut down I’m afraid.”

You hold eye contact for a moment longer. And then you look down to see what’s been revealed. You look at the reason why you’re here in the first place. 

His bronze t-cog spins slowly in a curved hollow chamber. 

Like the beating of your heart and the expansion of your lungs, you know that his t-cog should never stop moving. 

You move your head closer to get a better look. His t-cog hangs suspended in the center of the chamber from thin energon lines that feed into it from the top and the bottom. And it doesn’t stop spinning. Running around the t-tog are thin bands set into circles, which move like treadmills set to different speeds in different directions. Embossed upon them is a string of symbols. Three larger repeating symbols are spaced out amongst smaller different symbols. And although these tiny symbols are too small for you to identify, you think you know what the larger ones are.

You move your head even closer to confirm what you think you see. You do not blink. Your eyes pick out a larger symbol and stick to it. You follow its rotation upon its never ending track around the surface of its metal sun, and when it passes around the back of the t-cog and is temporarily lost to sight, you continue to track its progress until it emerges again. You watch the symbols for several rotations until you think you know what they are: a wheel, a speedometer, and an engine.

They look like the core symbols of a vehicle alt mode.

“Are these…” you ask hesitantly, sure that you’re wrong but you're going to ask him anyway. “Are these the symbols for a car mode?”

“Yes,” he answers to your surprise. “Everyone who changes into a car has these three symbols on their t-cog. It’s so the class of alt mode can be identified quickly and easily. Every vehicle alt mode has the engine symbol on their cog. But they have two different core symbols depending on their class. Uh...an aerial mode has wings and an altimeter, an oceanic mode has a propeller and a depth gauge, a space mode has a satellite and a gravimeter, and...and I can’t remember the rest. Or what the non-vehicle alt modes have. But you see those other symbols surrounding the core ones? The ones you can’t make out because they’re so small? They’re unique. They’re only for me.” He says this last line with repressed pride.

“I told you that you’re magnificent,” you tell him. “I told you.”

“Ha! I, uh, don’t think you used that word when you did though.”

“Did I tell you that you’re special?”

“Uh, no.”

“Fascinating?”

He doesn’t respond. 

“You are all three of those words,” you tell him. “You have always been.” The hot air venting out of him is a steady stream on your skin. It feels nice. 

“So, uh,” you say. “Do I just...touch it? All of it? Or just parts?”

“Yes. And yes. Just- put your fingertips on it. The oil will spread and sink in.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to touch his t-cog, but because you’re still having difficulty believing that you can help him just as much as the height of cybertronian science can. And that he’d rather you help him with this instead of the best medic alive.

A consequence of being mode drilled almost to death was the destruction of his t-cog’s lubrication cell. The t-cog itself functions normally, but it’s no longer naturally cleaned and lubricated. Which means that it has to be coated once a month in an artificial blend of chemicals or else it could seize up. A seized up t-cog can be re-started easily if it’s healthy. But if it’s been subjected to intense use over an unnaturally short period of time, hairline stress fractures form and widen and can never be closed. The re-ignition procedure is lengthy and the recovery period painful. So the t-cog must stay coated in a permeable protective barrier. You’ve been told that the oil your skin produces is slightly acidic in nature. And that acidity is what he needs.

Your fingers hover over a rotating band of symbols. “Are you sure?” You know he’s told you many times already that he is, but you also know that he knows you’re not doubting him. You’re just looking for reassurance. And as always he’s happy to give it to you.

“Yes,” he says. “The oil produced by humans and the other chemicals on their, your, skin is the most effective natural substance that can help with this. The medics have detailed records on every organic species we know of. And, uh, as weird as it may seem to you - and I know it does - using an acidic substance to protect something else works in this case. Humans are the most compatible with us.” 

He pauses. 

“You’re the most compatible with me.”

You lower your fingers until their tips skim the surface of his t-cog. You feel a whisper of metal movement on them. You press your fingers down onto it harder. The movement deepens and hardens. You keep your fingers still and steady and let the moving bands brush up against them. The core symbols embossed upon it are slightly higher than the others, and you feel their sharp outlines clearly. The smaller symbols are engraved, and your fingers dip down into their shallow grooves. You read and reread him with every slow rotation. And you learn something new every time. 

“Thank you,” he says, startling you out of your self-induced trance. “The oil’s spread out now, and it’s all coated. Everything’s fine.”

That can’t be right. You can’t be finished already. You’ve only been touching him for seconds. Minutes at most. You hadn’t even touched it properly. You just pressed your fingers into one of the rotating bands and gaped at it like a moron. You can’t have coated the entire thing already. But he just said that it has been fully coated. He must not need a lot of oil. You silently kick yourself for not making the most of this opportunity. You sigh. Maybe he’ll ask you to help him again next month, and you can explore it further then.

You start to move your hands away. “You don’t have to stop,” he says quickly. “Please don’t stop?”

You don’t hesitate. You put the fingertips of one hand back over the rotating band. The metal symbols skim up eagerly against them. You wait for one, two, three rotations to be completed. And then you use your other hand to grasp as much of the cog as possible. You hold it lightly, and spread your fingers as wide as they’ll go. The bronze cog is warm, and pulsing with energy. It tickles slightly. The vibrations and rotations are sensitive on the skin of your palm. You squeeze it gently. And you feel the bands’ rotations speed up and its core warmth deepen.

You think that you’re smiling widely. 

And then a new colour bleeds into the edge of your vision. And your pulse overtakes the speed of the moving bands you hold gently in your hand. Because you know where that softly glowing blue is coming from. 

Your eyes flick to where it is and then back up to him.

He nods. “Please.”

You swallow. And you take your time getting there. 

A thick cable feeds out of one side of the t-cog’s chamber to where another chamber sits in pride of place. You follow this textured cable with your fingertips. You drag them over every groove and sealing ridge and you do so slowly. You imagine the electricity flowing inside the tube that this cable is insulating. Its voltage would kill you instantly. Your other hand is still holding his t-cog, which is still pulsing steadily. But the frequency of those pulses are starting to match up with the flashes of light that are growing wider in your peripheral vision. Your roving hand passes over more cabling and wires and metal stacked switch boxes before it completes its pilgrimage and arrives.

His spark chamber looks beautiful. 

A never ending explosion of blue and white light is trapped within his casing. Except trapped isn’t the right word to use. His spark isn’t trapped inside that casing - it’s protected inside the casing. It’s being shielded from outside forces that could extinguish it prematurely. 

You rest the flat of your palm on the casing.

Tendrils of light intertwine with each other and reach up to lick the chamber’s ceiling. You know that they want to be as close to you as possible. And you want to be as close as possible to them. You are drawn to each other. It’s inevitable that you are.

You gingerly rest your cheek on the casing like it's made of brittle glass. You’re half convinced that it’s going to splinter and crack and cut you both but you can’t stop yourself, you need to be closer.

“You won’t break it,” he reassures you. “Its survived more than anyone thought possible, and is still in one piece.”

There’s a throb in your ear, and you can’t tell if it’s coming from him or if it’s the sound of your own furiously circulating blood.

“You won’t break it,” he repeats himself. His voice is soft and reassuring with a tone that borders on pleading. “You will do the opposite.”

You take a slow and bracing breath in through your nose and hold it buoyant in your lungs. And when you slowly exhale it – when you decide to take his words at face value and vow to never make him repeat himself again – you allow your head’s full weight to rest on it.

And it feels magnificent.

The unquantifiable energy of life rises up from his spark and bleeds through his casing like a flower turning its face towards the sun. You are finally here to feed it, and it is glorious in its gratitude. The side of your face laying flush with the casing feels warm, but the other side is starting to as well. The heat you’re absorbing from being in direct contact with his casing is diffusing throughout the rest of your body. His energy travels along invisible ley lines and melds with yours and it feels right, it feels so incredibly right. Dormant connections that you didn’t know existed are turned on and spark to life, and now you know what electricity feels like. Now you know what it means to feel complete.

He rests one hand on your back and uses the other to cradle the back of your head. You sense that he wants to say something to you. He wants to thank you and reassure you and explain things to you, but his vocal processor has been flooded with static and he’s been stripped of the ability to talk.

You answer him by raising your hand up to rest the flat of your palm on his spark casing next to your face. Your fingertips almost brush your lips. A fresh burst of warmth sinks into your palm, and slowly crawls along your arm and towards your chest. Different lines of energy are being absorbed by your cheek and are sliding down your spine. These are flowing through your arm and are also heading for your heart. And when they get there they’re going to combine with each other. They’re going to meet and rejoice and pulse and burst and stream throughout the rest of your body. It will be silent and painless and your body will welcome it gladly.

You don’t know how you know all of this will happen, but you do.

His fingers tighten almost infinitesimally around you. It’s like he knows this will happen too, and he’s terrified that he’s going to be responsible for breaking this connection if he dares to move. But he can’t ignore a code deep impulse to hold onto you tighter and hold you closer. And because it’s a code deep instruction it means it’s compatible with the other core ones. Your connection doesn’t break. It deepens. 

There is an enveloping blanket of warmth and light, and his spark casing supports your face like a pillow from a dream. You close your eyes. The soft whirr of machinery blends seamlessly with your breathing, and your heart pulses in time to that of his spark. His slightly weaker beat is disrupted and soothed by your slightly stronger one, and is absorbed gratefully into it. Your syncopation is effortless.

You open your eyes six hours later.

And you open them slowly.

Artificial sunlight is streaming through the window onto you. It’s morning.

“Hi,” he says to you, knowing immediately that you’ve woken up.

“Hi.”

You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to move away from him. This is the most content you’ve ever felt and you don’t want it to end.

You lay together in brilliant warmth and do not count the seconds. You do not count the minutes. You ignore the hours and the responsibilities of the day and you take a soul deep comfort in the fact that this moment is possible and that you’re able to experience it.

You close your eyes again. And the light of his spark burns brighter.


End file.
